


Gray Lines

by nan00k



Series: Blood Gulch City [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU, Gen, Superheroes, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan00k/pseuds/nan00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Washington was officially retired from this hero business. Why, then, is he still breaking up muggings in the streets of Blood Gulch? When he winds up meeting an eager rookie on the street, he doesn’t want to be dragged back into the world he tried so hard to leave behind. Too bad it seems like the universe wants him to stick around.</p>
<p>(Superhero AU, part of the Blood Gulch City series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gray Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Finally another installment, this time focusing on Washington, his involvement with Freelancer, and his role in the city of Blood Gulch. There’s hints of Tuckington ahead, btw, though I’m pretty much in the Wash-is-ace camp. So. Broships ahead?
> 
> This is a multi-chapter installment, but I'm unsure of how long it will be. I'm super busy with life right now, so not guarantees on when I will update this story, BUT I am still 100% working on this series. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> \----  
>  **Warnings** : foul language, depictions of violence, implied canonical deaths, alternative universe  
>  **Disclaimer** : Red vs. Blue © Rooster Teeth Productions. I only write this mess.  
> \---

**Blood Gulch City**

The best part of being retired was that you didn’t have to deal with working anymore. That was the deal. That’s the way it had always and should have been. Being retired meant he didn’t have to work at all if he didn’t want to.

And by _work_ , he meant getting a face full of closed fist and the taste of blood rippling across his tastebuds from it.

Wash ducked the second swing and the third. He danced around the fourth, because the guy was sloppy and young and his two buddies didn’t really get the idea of a fight that went further than beating the crap out of one guy they had cornered.

He was twenty-nine years old. He shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, especially when it was mostly self-inflicted.

And it was self-inflicted, to a degree. It wasn’t like he had planned on a fist fight with drunk punks in some dingy alley way off the bar district. Wash didn’t go to the bars and didn’t like walking around at night anyway. It brought the worst out of people; walking by that alley and hearing the tell-tale signs of a three-on-one fight was just more evidence for it.

It had all the signs of a mugging. The guy that the three brutes were kicking and punching by the dumpster was easily smaller than even the shortest of them. The bigger guys were clearly intoxicated and shouting slurs. Maybe that was what drew Wash away from the curb, after he placed his grocery bags down, and down to the alley to stop the fight.

Really, he had no idea how it could have gone bad.

But there he was: ducking a fifth, finding momentum, and clocking the giant trying to pummel him straight across the jaw. The punk went down without another sound, crumpling on the asphalt.

Normally a sight like that scared the others off--unless he was dealing with another Super or just an idiot. Only one of the remaining punks was an idiot; the other ran off, tripping over himself as he peeled out of the alley. The other tried to jump in when Wash’s back was turned. Wash brought his arms up to block the strike and it was a heavy one.

Not a Super though. Just drunk and angry.

Wash tripped him, but the guy grabbed onto Wash’s forearm, dragging him down. Wash kicked him again, knowing he broke a rib doing so, but the guy’s anger surpassed his pain levels, it seemed. He just kept trying to drag Wash down with him. In a split second decision, Wash let himself be dragged, slamming his knees onto the guy’s gut. The man punched Wash across the jaw, but Wash just rolled with it, making sure to keep on top.

He needed to end it before it got louder and earned them unwanted attention, Wash knew. He raised his fist and meant to knock the guy out.

The bastard moved at the last second and Wash felt his fist slam into the brick behind him. He hissed in pain. He felt that one. He forgot he wasn’t wearing armor, again.

On his left side, he also felt something tug and pull. _Shit_ , he thought.

Wash decided to stop giving his opponent the benefit of the doubt. He grabbed the man’s shirt collar and used it as leverage to slam the guy’s head back onto the cement, leveling them on the ground completely. The drunk man roared something but Wash just replied with a solid closed fist to the jaw.

The guy went down hard and Wash didn’t feel any sympathy for it. He let him go, unclenching his hand carefully. It was covered in blood from the brick.

He hadn’t even really felt the punch to his face. He checked his teeth and nothing was loose. Lucky.

Slowly, Wash got to his feet. The alley was quiet, other than from his breathing and the breathing of the victim by the dumpster. At that point, the victim had also attempted to get upright, only managing to get to his knees as he wheezed for air.

Wash stared at the man and took in what he saw. There was no wallet. The kid on the ground was wearing a pull-down ski-mask.

_Ah_ , Wash thought, as the adrenaline faded. So, that’s what it was.

“You normally go around picking fights?” he asked, trying to remain civil. He wiped the blood off onto his own jacket. “Or were you trying to play masked crusader?”

The kid on the ground wasn’t really a kid. A young man, college or maybe a bit younger, spat out a mouthful of blood onto the cement.

Then, inexplicably, he said: “Fuck you, man!”

Wash glared at the other man, who struggled to stand up. He swayed as he yanked off his hat and dreadlocks spilled out over his sweaty, bloodied face.

“I just saved you from a trip to the hospital, so try to take something from this,” Wash said. “Don’t do it again.”

Doc made fun of his voice sometimes, when he yelled at people. He chided too much, Doc said. Wash didn’t get what made it so funny.

Kids jumping into fights, for a good reason or none at all, and getting their asses handed to them--and they still didn't care about the outcome. This guy had whirled around on his unsteady feet to glare daggers at Wash, like he had somehow made things worse for him.

“They broke a window at my friend’s store and stole some stuff,” the kid said. He took a deep breath, coming up with an explanation all too quickly. “I wanted to--to--”

“To teach them a lesson?” Wash asked, dryly.

The thing about heroes and masks were that they inspired a lot of good--and a lot of bad intentions. Kids thought a mask made you invincible.

In a way, it did, Wash conceded. Just not physically.

“No!” the young man snapped. His anger was sudden and confusing. “Thanks for the help, asshole.”

He stumbled away and fell into a limp as he sidestepped the two unconscious men on the ground. Wash watched him go and wondered what the real story was. He knew a liar when he heard one, but honestly, it wasn’t his business.

None of this had been his business. Wash felt his shoulders droop lower as he was left in the silent, yawning cavern of the alley. His right hand was burning with pain now, earning his attention.

“Fuck,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fist. It stung from the glass. He made another fist and he knew there was at least one broken bone.

His ribs were on fire. He had torn the stitches. Again.

Standing in the middle of the alley, Wash cursed again and could only blame himself for it.

_I’m too old for this._

**0000**

After calling the police to pick up the two drunks on the alley floor, Wash left with his groceries. His right hand was still hurting badly enough that he knew he didn’t have a choice.

He had to go find the Medic.

He was only six blocks from Brookline Avenue. Straight down that way, past crackhouses and a fenced in pit Wash was pretty sure used to be or was still a dog fighting ring, was the clinic. Most of the places like it were run in shitty areas of big cities, since the rent was cheaper and most people who used them didn’t want attention anyway. The anonymity of poverty was a blessing sometimes, Wash thought.

The Brookline Clinic was government funded, but locally run and effectively left to manage itself. It only had one healer on staff, a secretary, and then an occasional volunteer from the community to help during busier parts of the season. The hours could fluctuate randomly, but Wash knew it would be open, even before he approached the front door and saw the lights were on.

The secretary was gone for the evening, but the medic rummaging through the desk files immediately perked up at the sound of the door opening

“Hello there--oh!” Doc lit up with recognition. “Hey, Wash!”

“Hey, Doc,” Wash said, wearily. He dropped his bags by the three chairs along the side wall.

Doc was already moving around the desk to go to him. “What brings you around this time of night?”

“Just need some patching up,” Wash said, grimacing as he flexed his hand again.

Doc was...a weird guy. Wash hadn’t known what to think about the man when they first met, when Wash had first spotted the clinic and it’s recognizable Super-Friendly logo. Doc wasn’t actually a doctor and his real name was Frank DuFresne. Apparently, he had tried medical school but had flunked it. That would have worried Wash having him running a clinic, but well, there was more than one way to fix an injury.

“What happened this time, Wash?” Doc asked, frowning as he stared at the flexing fingers.

“Eh, nothing much.”

The look he received was unimpressed at best. “Uh huh. Well, go sit down in the exam room. I’ll be right in.”

Doc wasn’t the strongest healer Wash had ever encountered, but he was decent enough to close wounds without stitches or fix a headache with a two second-long touch. Being able to do minor healing should have been enough to get him a job at a real hospital, or at least Wash felt that way. The government felt otherwise, as did normal doctors who might have felt challenged by supers with healing powers who hadn’t spent years in medical school.

There was also a stigma, though most people wouldn’t admit to it. People sometimes got freaked out by supers using their powers. They didn’t understand powers well and the idea of using them to treat injuries was too much for some.

Still, the government liked its resources. Clinics were one way of allowing non-doctors to help heal the sick or injured, mostly in urban environments, cheaply.

Doc chatted away as he came into the exam room just down the hall. He picked up Wash’s injured hands and tested out each finger. There was a hairline fracture in the knuckles, most likely, he said. Wash figured he couldn’t be that wrong.

Cradling Wash’s hand with both of his own, Doc focused intensely on the process of healing it. Wash had been curious about the nature of a healer’s powers. He understood it had something to do with stimulating the growth within Wash’s own cells to repair the damage almost instantly. As a weaker healer, it took a little time for Doc to do it, but it was a hell of a lot faster than getting a cast and waiting weeks.

He tuned out most of Doc’s chattering--something about an intern nurse named after a pastry was just really not what he wanted to hear at that time of night--and his eyes wandered around the room. Past the childishly uplifting posters about overcoming adversity on the wall, there were a line of windows that started just above Wash’s head while he sat on the bench. They were along the alley next to the clinic.

Frowning, Wash thought about drunk assholes on the street and wannabe heroes running wild. The last report he heard about masks appearing on the rooftops of Blood Gulch just made it all worse.

“You should be more careful,” he said, once Doc released his hand. He flexed his fingers carefully and there wasn’t any pain.

Doc glanced up, surprised. “What?”

“The windows over here are all unlocked,” Wash said, gesturing at the windows overhead. “You should get bars over them.”

“This neighborhood isn’t that bad,” Doc said, dismissing the concern as he went over to wash his hands at the sink. “Besides, it’s not like I have medicine to steal. Well, I guess I do, but not that much.”

Wash frowned. “I’m not talking about thieves. You’re one of the only super healers in the city and the only one who operates for free. You’re going to get a lot of crooked supers coming your way.”

Doc laughed. “Oh, come on, Wash, don’t be so melodramatic! It’s fine. I haven’t had any trouble at all for the three years that I’ve been here.”

“Still. I heard that there were some new ones moving in. I don’t know what it is about this city, but it looks like more and more supers are arriving.”

“Well, good for business?” Doc ventured.

“You don’t take money,” Wash deadpanned.

“Well, I’m funded by the city, so the more people I help, the more support we get,” Doc said, his insistence on remaining positive both funny and grating. “Maybe we can open up that after-school program after all!”

“Jesus.” Wash ran his good hand over face. “Look, just try not to let the next Meta walk in the doors without at least thinking twice.”

Doc laughed as he rummaged through the drawer. “Aww, I appreciate the concern, Wash.”

“You’re the only healer in town,” Wash said, bluntly. “That’s why I’m concerned.”

“Still!”

Wash leaned back against the wall and the bench creaked. “Ugh, shut up.”

“I’ll be careful, Wash,” Doc said, glancing over his shoulder at the other man. He was smiling, though his eyes were crinkled with concern again. “You ought to take your own advice though and stop getting into fights.”

Wash scowled. “I’m not--never mind.”

There was no point arguing and it had nothing to do with the blood encrusted on his hands or his injured side. Wash said nothing more as Doc made his way over with a bottle of disinfectant. It wasn’t entirely needed, but Doc liked to be thorough.

“You can always come talk to me if you need help, Wash. I hope you know that,” the healer said as he settled next to the bench. He took Wash’s extended hand and dabbed away at the dried blood.

“Yeah,” Wash said, doing his best not to sulk. “I’d prefer a professional.”

Doc’s expression and shoulders drooped. “Heeey.”

He knew Doc meant it and he didn’t feel irritated by it. Doc had patched him up several times since Wash migrated to the area after his discharge. Sometimes, Wash found trouble and other times it found him. It was hard to tell sometimes which scenario he was dealing with.

Breaking up fights or picking them--Wash really just wished his luck could change. He was retired, damn it. This city was supposed to be big and bland enough to let him disappear and just...stop being Washington.

Once Doc was finished--and really, he didn’t have to clean Wash up that much--Wash thanked him and made sure to drop some cash into the donation jar up front when Doc didn’t see him do it.

“Lock your windows,” Wash said, emphasizing the order as he grabbed his groceries.

“Have a good night!” Doc called, poking his head back out of the exam room, not the least bit exasperated.

Wash sighed as he walked away, shoving the door aside and hauling his bags up higher. He didn’t walk faster until he heard the door shut securely. He didn’t stay long enough to hear if Doc locked it. He could only hope for that much, that Doc would be smarter than so many other people he had known and lost.

He could only really hope for anything anymore--and even that never seemed enough.

**0000**

As he wiped down the bench and tidied up the exam room, Doc didn’t hear the door open at the front. He certainly didn’t hear anything else until the voice spoke up behind him.

“Hello, DuFresne.”

Doc gasped and nearly dropped the iodine bottle in his hand. “Oh!”

Spinning around, he gaped up at the man leaning against the doorjamb of the tiny exam room. He was cleanly dressed in slacks and a jean jacket, but his face and hair seemed rather filthy, like he hadn’t bathed in a while. Doc took a second to recover.

“You scared me,” he said, feeling a twinge of adrenaline. Gosh, that really got his blood pumping.

Leaning against the wall, O’Malley just smiled. Closed-mouth for once and not all teeth.

“Apologies, doctor. The door was open,” he said, motioning back toward the lobby and the front door.

“It’s always unlocked while I’m here,” Doc said, frowning. “Are you hurt?”

“Nope,” O’Malley said. More teeth started to show.

Doc sighed as he went back to putting the bottle on the shelf of the closet. “Well, we’re not very busy, but even still. The clinic isn’t a community center.”

“You certainly let any old riff raff in for conversations,” O’Malley said.

“What? You're just as bad as my other friend,” Doc said, shaking his head. “You can stay if you want O’Malley, but not for long. I’m locking up in about an hour.”

He was used to surprise guests, but no one was quite like O’Malley. The man had shown up last year and frequented the clinic at late hours. Sometimes he was scuffed up, but he liked riddles and never told Doc plainly what had caused the injuries. Doc didn’t like to pry; his patients, even if he wasn’t a real doctor, deserved privacy.

Getting back to work putting bottles and cleaning supplies away, Doc got used to O’Malley lingering to watch. The other man was an enigma, since he didn’t always have a reason for coming by. Sometimes, he just watched Doc go about his business without a word. It was a little weird, but Doc wasn’t going to judge him for it. Maybe he was just curious about how the clinic worked.

Sometimes, though it felt like the other man was...waiting for something to happen. Doc didn’t know what he could be anticipating every time he came into the clinic, but he didn’t ask. Part of him just didn’t want to know.

He had become accustomed to O’Malley stopping by in the same way he had gotten used to see Wash on occasion. Wash always had a reason to visit, though, with some kind of injury he pointedly refused to talk about. Last week, he had come in with a large slash across his lower ribs, but in the end, he chose to go to the regular hospital a few blocks away, since Doc had been swamped with work at the time. It made Doc feel guilty, but he had to trust Wash knew what he was doing. Wash was just a good guy. Doc hoped that whatever troubled him would ease up soon.

O’Malley had moved over to the bench and was just silently observing him. Doc brought up a box of supplies he had meant to restock in the closet and went about opening it up.

“So, tell me, DuFresne,” O’Malley said, breaking the silence with the subtly of a sledgehammer to glass. “What did the Freelancer want?”

“The what?” Doc asked, frowning.

O’Malley was grinning again. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? Shame. Could have used a bit of gossip. This city is terribly dull. Nothing like LA.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re here to cause trouble,” Doc said, sighing. He went back to stacking. “You were so badly hurt the first time you came here, I didn’t want to assume--”

“So, what did the Freelancer want?” O’Malley interrupted.

“Nothing. He’s a good guy.” Doc froze and then turned to give O’Malley his full attention. “Wait, we _are_  talking about Wash, right? He’s the only one who came in here this afternoon.”

O’Malley’s grin turned brilliant.

“Washington, then,” he said, almost gleeful.

Doc blinked. “Huh?”

“Oh, nothing,” O’Malley said, shrugging. He was still smiling and it seemed almost like an uncontrolled gesture. He suddenly nodded his head backwards, toward the windows. “You should really put bars on your windows, though. Nasty people could get in here.”

O’Malley certainly had a gift of making people feel uncomfortable.

“...Right,” Doc said, trying to sidestep that discomfort.

Uncoiling from the bench, O’Malley went out grinning and Doc wasn’t sure he liked the edges to it. He knew that O’Malley probably caused a lot of the trouble Wash was prone to trying to stop, but...well, it was out of his hands.

He heard the front door shut and he sighed, resting his palms down on the counter.

This was the type of job he always wanted and he enjoyed helping people. He just really wished the helping was always as easy as healing a few scrapes and cuts.

Doc went to grab the last box of gauze and then stopped.

“What’s a Freelancer?” he asked himself, before realizing no one was left to answer him.

**End _Chapter 1_.**

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/Ns** :  
> -Omega's loose! Oh, boy. Wonder what he's been up to.  
> 


End file.
